Chapter 2
The clean snap of the boxwood branch echoed sharply in the quiet morning air, but Martha barely heard it over the rushing blood in her ears. She remained crouched in the mulch, the heavy yellow-handled hedge clippers held loosely in her gloved hands as she stared at the fresh green leaves she had just severed. The electronic whir of the security camera had ceased, leaving behind an oppressive, heavy silence that felt heavier than the damp earth beneath her knees. Arthur was up there, she was certain of it. He was the kind of tenant who worked remotely, staring at multiple computer monitors all day, a pale young man with sharp eyes and an unsettling habit of asking overly polite questions about the property's history.
Slowly, Martha rose to her feet, making a deliberate show of stretching her lower back and wiping a speck of dirt from her blue jeans. She turned her back to the camera, pretending to inspect the rest of the overgrown hedge that ran along the beige siding of the house. As she moved down the line, her mind raced back to the night Arthur had signed the lease. He had admired the old oak tree in the front yard, praised the sturdiness of the fence, and then paused just a fraction too long when looking at the side yard. At the time, she had dismissed it as city paranoia—people moving out of the city always carried an excess of distrust. Now, standing only feet from where the old oak stump used to be, she wondered if he had seen county records, old property maps, or perhaps something even more damning.
The side door of the main house creaked open, breaking her train of thought. David stepped out onto the small concrete landing, holding a mug of steaming black coffee. He looked tired, his shoulders slouched beneath a flannel shirt, his gray hair uncombed. He squinted against the bright morning light, looking first at Martha and then, with a slow, unfocused gaze, drifting upward toward the roofline. David knew nothing about the camera's precise angle, and he certainly didn't remember the exact coordinates of the old drainage pipe project from five years ago. His memory had been fading in subtle, frightening increments over the past two years, leaving Martha to carry the heavy burdens of the household entirely alone.
"Morning, Martha," David said, his voice raspy with sleep. He took a slow sip from his mug, his eyes resting on the trimmed bushes. "You're out here early. Looks good."
May you like
"Thanks, David," she replied, keeping her voice even and calm. She made sure not to look up at the camera while speaking to him. "Just trying to get this done before the afternoon sun hits this side of the house. You want some breakfast?"
"Maybe in a bit," David muttered, turning his gaze back toward the back fence. He stood there for a moment, a picture of quiet detachment, before wandering back inside and letting the door latch shut behind him. Martha exhaled softly, realizing that her husband's detachment, once a source of deep loneliness, was now her greatest shield. If Arthur was watching, he would see a normal couple going through a normal morning routine. But Martha knew that normality was a thin veneer, and beneath it, the earth was waiting to give up its secrets.
